


Hands On

by Isaac2Pace (Misty_Endings)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: DarkPilot, Hand Kink, Kylo POV, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:23:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6932218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misty_Endings/pseuds/Isaac2Pace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kylo is feeling very at peace and that's thanks to Poe Dameron's hand...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands On

Still.

I feel utterly still.

That isn’t normally a statement I can make. Even after I, Kylo Ren, broke from the grip of Snoke and the First Order, I didn’t just over the course of a day suddenly turned around my entire life, faced the Resistance’s General (my mother of all people!), explained or apologized for everything I had done and found a serenity back at home (if a secret Resistance military installation on a remote planet could be called a home). Nor was I welcomed with open arms by one and all. I could have changed my name back to Ben Solo, leaving behind all of Kylo as if it might make people forget the things I once did, and on some level I am sure it would help a little, but I wouldn’t forget and I didn’t want to. Kylo is who I became, who I still am and Kylo was who I needed to live with, to control. It’s been a long time now since I returned, lending where I can my knowledge and abilities of “the other side”: of The Dark; The Order; whatever I know that the other soldiers or pilots or leaders do not. Yet everything continues to be a one-day, one-problem, one-crisis-at-a-time situation. It is a work in progress that improves with each passing day. Well, _most_ days and with _a lot_ of effort, which can be daunting and exhausting, but I am trying.

Today’s evening stillness isn’t due to the current quiet on the base nor the cooing sound of the strange birds in the dense jungle trees that surrounded the area. It certainly isn’t brought about by the _comfort_ of this too narrow sofa, which wouldn’t be so bad if I had it all to myself while I peruse this minor and boring intelligence report Mother asked me to review.

Yet right now while I sit here curled up on one end of this sofa in the barracks I share with Poe – despite having an official assignment of my own – I feel still. Poe is usually the reason the imposing and occasionally irritable me can also become quiet and relatively calm, so honestly this shouldn’t be as much of a surprise, so why I am wondering about this? Not only is Poe the Best Pilot in the Resistance but he’s also My Pilot – a title he actually enthused and though I laughed at him for acting like me loving him is one of his greatest achievements, I would be dumb as a nerf to let anyone take away someone who honestly feels that way about someone like me and I’m _not_ a nerf – Anyway, My Pilot continues to help me acclimate to the members of base, his friends and squadron. He also knows when this brooding ex-Knight of Ren needs time far from people and so he takes me to somewhere where we can be alone. Alone to talk. Alone to touch. Whatever I need. A single look or a word, directly to Poe or not, and the pilot swoops in. My Lover – _oh wow, thinking that one always makes my face feel hot…_ My Lover doesn’t have an ounce of control over The Force the way I do, yet somehow Poe seems to sense what I need even before I fully know what it is and as always seeks to give it to me if he can.

This time I didn’t ask for anything, not even in silence.

The stillness hadn’t even started upon Poe’s return from the pilot bay – the linger of engine grease and port exhaust very faintly wafting from somewhere in the room despite My Pilot’s time in the refresher. He had swatted my extremely long legs with the data pad in his hands, playfully grumbling I couldn’t just claim it all. Being a complainer I had cited there were plenty of other places Poe could go, including the floor, yet I always acquiesce and had drew back my knees to my chest in order to accommodate him. It is technically Poe’s sofa in Poe’s room, though said mate never failed to repeat the usual “my junk is your junk" delivery (the timber of his voice modified when delivering that line based on the subject at _or in_ hand). And so Poe had flopped down into the spot with a dramatic _oomph_ , smiling **that** smile. That smile that could light up the darkest voids of space if I tried to be poetic, which I dare not attempt to say aloud, so I settled for a silence that stated it was a smile that charmed and let its owner again have his way. It truly is a beautiful. Poe could use it on anyone he wanted, but he was determined that I would be the one to see it first every morning, last every night and upon every return from a mission.

It’s long after that smile dimmed into a simple line of content and Poe focused studiously on whatever technical manual is propped against his thigh that I lost the consideration of my own work and find myself resting my head against the top of the sofa, lazily watching him as the calming sensation washes over me. Maybe it also has something to do with Poe’s free hand on my exposed ankle.

Not maybe.

**Definitely**.

This isn’t the first time we’ve been in this leisurely position. Whenever Poe starts this I find myself relaxing and the longer My Lover continues, the more I feel lost in it. The way his fingers just slowly stroke the same line over the tendon or the back of a nail ghosts over the sharp curve of bone jutting out. His thumb sometimes grazes over the bottom of my shin or his whole hand strays a little higher to the curve of my calf before working its way back down to where it started. Up and down… Up and down… Up and down and over again…. So hypnotic… It feels **nice**.

The subtle movements are soft. Mostly. There is also something else… Tickling? No, that’s not the right word. I’m not involuntarily laughing like when he teases the spot below my ear, a tiny known fact Poe Dameron never fucking forgot from when we were younger. The other day when he did it, I had tried to be funny, threatening to wear a helmet again if he dared to do that in public view.

“Do that and I won’t touch you hello or goodbye on _any_ part of you in private either,” he had returned.

All right. No masks unless otherwise instructed.

So if not tickling, then what? Scratchy? Yes, scratchy is better. Delightfully so. Breaking the softer areas are flickers of rough edges at the tips of Poe’s fingers, catching for the briefest of moments against my skin. They heighten the perception. Both of My Pilot’s hands are like that really, marked here and there with a callous or old, healed cuts over the palm and fresh cracks on his fingertips from work on the X-Wings in the hanger. There isn’t a part of me that hasn’t experienced their sensation. Poe loves me and like to express so often and thoroughly in various ways: brushes from the nape of my neck and up into the waves of my hair to drag me down to his height and capture my lips; the slips under clothing which travel like they’re exploring anew every time; the traces of Poe’s digits over my hole before he coats them in lube and slips inside to tease the sensitive bundle of nerves, working my walls open to accommodate his cock so those hands can return to occupying other points on my flesh. _Maker, he’s awe-inspiring at making me come undone…_

Right now this touch is much more simple, yet I’m starting to wonder if Poe is actually reading about pressure points on that pad of his, because the feeling starts to radiate higher, awakening areas only I and Poe ever touch. Okay, it’s all in my mind, thinking the way I am. Not that I’m complaining.

Last time when I asked him why he was doing this, Poe nonchalantly answered he didn’t realize he _was_. “Guess I really love your cold ankles,” he had said with a teasing grin. Poe likes the most silliest things about me. Sometimes I swear he only states such things just to rattle me speechless, knowing Poe knew I was blushing over the absurd comment without the pilot ever looking up at my face. The bastard! I hate when Poe does that like I needs some reminder about he feels about me no matter how dumb.

Actually I love him more when he does.

To Poe - if he is to be believed- it is supposedly absentminded on his half, an action toward which he gravitates. For me it’s a pleasing witchcraft, grounding me in the moment.

Poe…

Soft **and** rough Poe.

“What?,” the voice on the other end of the couch suddenly speaks, causing a slight shock to my calm like a glitch when viewing a long-distance holo message during a storm.

“What?” I repeat.

“What, ‘ _what_ ’?” He mimics confused. “You just said, ‘Poe’.”

I swallow back the “ _I did?_ ”and push the side of my head hard against the top of the sofa. I uttered his name without realizing! How embarrassing! Least I can be grateful the man didn’t look up from his pad nor stops his slow ministrations to view my awkwardness. Quickly I try to think of something to say, something better than silence or “never mind,” because Poe never accepts them. But all I can think about _is what I was thinking about_.

_Oh fuck it._

“Why are your hands the way they are?”

Well that certainly takes My Pilot’s attention away from his studying. Brows knit together from the ridiculous out-of-the-blue question. “Huh?”

“Your hands… Your fingers,” I begin again, looking into those round dark eyes, before deciding he doesn’t need to finish. Poe heard me fine the first time.

“I was messing with the repulsorlift and converters today,” he answers, letting go to examine the perceived issue. “Sorry. They that bad?”

“No!” I respond a little too high and quick, my foot chasing after the retreating warm hand, before dialing my tone back to something a little less needy. “Fine. They’re fine. Just fine.”

A light chuckle escapes Poe as he turns back to his reading and those fingers wrap around again, yet moving a little less now that’s he aware. “Okay then, as long as _they’re fine just fine_.”

“They don’t bother me,” I assure. “Why were you working on your ship?”

“Just maintenance,” Poe answers matter-of-factly.

“There’s an entire ground crew of people and droids,” I remind. “They can do that for you. You’re a Commander.”

“Well yes I am aware of that,” he says, clearly understanding the obvious points of titles and positions. “Sometimes I want to do it myself. A good pilot should know the inner workings of his ship and care for it. Besides you know I like it. Always have.”

Yes, I do know. Poe loves ships. He speaks of them with as much admiration and passion as he does about me to Snap, the commander’s fellow pilot having secretly told me some of the fluff Poe’s said about me when Poe’s not around (or in some cases hinted smut. Seriously, pilots and their mouths! I’d run back to Poe and yell at him, but honestly it’s kind of flattering he boasts about me). Sometimes I think Poe gets a little too enthused over fighters. I’ve actually had to pry him away from the hangers to get him to come home on a few occasions. When he states “I can fly anything,” it’s because he **can**. He’s manned the helm of starships and flown any fighter made available to him (both the Resistance-assigned and mission-in-a-pinch commandeered sort). Probably why Poe can be engrossed in the material of specs, instructions and diagrams before him like it was a thrilling fictional holo-novel of the moment and not just the tedious manual it is in my eyes.

Nevertheless, I ask softly, “What about it?”

Poe glances up again. “Huh?”

I slide back to relax more comfortably against the arm of the sofa and nudge against the hand holding my ankle to urge him to continue. “What do you like about the work? Tell me.”

A weird, questioning look is what I receive in return at first, but it doesn’t take Poe long to indulge me. “I like taking off my gloves and getting my bare hands on the yoke to make sure the alignments when I’m in the air are just right. I like opening up the interior and getting in there, getting dirty to understand how it works. When there is a problem, I want to know why? What can I do to fix it and make it better? When I maneuver that ship into doing something amazing or near impossible, I know it's because I cared for it and gave it the capacity to do so.”

For a while I stare at him. Nothing he says is unusual and yet I feel Poe is talking about more than ships, even if Poe isn't aware of it.

The look doesn't go unnoticed. “Hey, why are we talking about this?”

“I don’t know,” I answer. Half true. Half lie.

“What?” he questions with a wry smile. “Am I some _deep mystery_ because I like to be hands-on?”

“No just…” I trail off, trying to think of what to say that won’t come off stupid or sappy, but all I settle on is, “I was just trying to understand you.”

Silence fills the space between us once more as Poe evaluates me almost in the same manner I did a moment ago. Then he shrugs before turning back to his specs. “I take care of what is mine. Simple as that.”

The smile that cracks on my face is small, but my insides swell in delight at the words. They teach you to let go of possession as a Jedi. That’s something with which I’ve never agreed. Or maybe I just channeled the philosophy in a different way: I like being possessed; being someone’s “mine.” No. More specifically I like being Poe’s “mine.” Only for Poe. My Pilot always tells me how strong and powerful I am to face and fight against my demons. He respects my skills and determination to do things on my own or in my way, and admires my tenacity and even my stubbornness. He tells me how beautiful I am, finding all the things I never liked and thought weird about myself attractive in his eyes, and he tells me how wonderful I am to love. When Poe says these things, I know he means them. I believe him. Yet I also believe that like with My Pilot’s X-Wing, it is Poe who fixes me when I’m broken. It is Poe that reaches into those deep, dark places because he wants to help me no matter how dirty they may be. At my lowest points Poe steps in to help make the impossible possible. It's Poe that cares for me because Poe and those beautifully marred hands of his simply care.

The hand on my ankle has completely stopped yet has not let go, and now I’m just absorbing the heat of skin-on-skin. The sensation is no longer enough and my ankle has had all the attention it deserved and now that attention needs to be everywhere else. My own hands have been much too idle as well. The stubble on that strong face I gaze upon is more of Poe’s roughness I need to touch while he kisses me mercilessly. The thick, dark mass of hair is more of Poe’s softness begging to be stroked and pulled while I’m pleasured in whatever way Poe sees fit. And I want nothing more than to caress, mark and dig into his tanned skin to express how much I desires and love this man.

My long arm reaches across the way and remove the schematics from the studious pilot, who watches curiously as it disappears behind my back along with the neglected report.

“Babe?”

My Pilot needs no navigator to take his hands and guide them to my waist as I settle into his lap, pulling him closer in the narrow space. “Take care of me tonight,” I demand.

The intensity brimming in those dark eyes now have something else to study. His loving smile is so beautiful. “On this lousy sofa?”

“On this lousy sofa. On the floor. In bed. Doesn’t matter where. Just as long as your touch is on me.”

I kiss him firmly and then speaks against those warm lips. “And _in_ me.”

I grind once forward to draw out a groan. “ **And often**.”

“Maker…” Poe’s voice is warm and hungry. “I love you.”

And with that the last thoughts of stillness are completely gone, replaced with an overwhelming urge of passion. Not that I mind when it is Poe Dameron’s hands working meticulously to take care of me per my request.


End file.
